‘Certainly,’ Wokulski murmured, already somewhat easier in mind regarding his rival: ‘He won’t turn the head of Izabela.’
They came to the end of the park, beyond the railings of which a row of brick buildings was to be seen. ‘Oh, just look, what an unusual woman the Duchess is!’ said Ochocki, pointing, ‘do you see those palaces? They’re farm cottages for labourers. And the house over there is a refuge for farm children: there are some thirty of them, all washed and cared for like little princes … And that villa is a shelter for old people, of whom there are four: they have a pleasant time cleaning hair for mattresses for the guests’ rooms. I’ve wandered about various parts of this country, and I’ve seen farm-labourers living everywhere like pigs, their children playing in the mud like piglets. When I came here for the first time I could hardly believe my eyes. I seemed to be in Utopia, or in the pages of a boring but virtuous novel, in which the author describes what the gentry should be like, but never are … The old lady has impressed me. If you want to know what sort of library she has, what she reads … I was taken aback when she once asked me to explain a point of Darwinism, which she dislikes only because it sees the struggle for existence as a fundamental law of nature.’
Felicja appeared at the end of the alley: ‘Well, Julian, shall we go?’ she asked Ochocki.
‘Mr Wokulski is coming with us.’
‘Oh?’ asked the young lady, in surprise.
‘You prefer not?’ Wokulski inquired.
‘Not at all … But I thought you would be better off in the company of Mrs Wąsowska.’
‘Felicja!’ cried Ochocki, ‘don’t play at sarcasm, if you please. It doesn’t come off.’
Offended, the young lady walked ahead in the direction of the pond, the two men after her. They fished through the heat of the day until five o’clock. Ochocki caught a two-ounce gudgeon, and Miss Felicja tore the lace on her sleeve. Consequently, a squabble broke out between them to the effect that young ladies had no idea how to hold a fishing-rod, and that men can’t sit still for a moment without talking.
The dinner-bell finally reconciled them. After dinner, the Baron went to his room (at this time of day he always had migraine), while the rest of the company planned to meet in a summer-house in the park, where fruit was usually eaten.
Wokulski went there half an hour later. He thought he would be first, but he found all the ladies there, and Starski addressing them. He sat stretched out in a cane chair and was speaking with a bored expression on his face, tapping his boot with a riding-crop: ‘If marriages have ever played a part in history, then it wasn’t marriage for love, but those of self-interest. What would we know today of Jadwiga or Maria Leszczyńska if those ladies had not known how to make a judicious choice? Who would Stefan Batory or Napoleon I have been if they had not married women of influence? Marriage is too important an event to enter into on the strength of feelings alone. It isn’t a poetical union between two souls, but an important event for many people and interests. If I were to marry a chambermaid or governess, I should be lost to my world tomorrow. No one will ask me what the temperature of my feelings was, but what income I have for keeping up a household, and who is the woman I am introducing into my family.’
‘Political marriages are one thing, and those entered into for money, to a person one doesn’t love, are another,’ said the Duchess, looking at the ground and tapping the table with her fingers. ‘That is violence done to the most sacred feelings.’
‘Oh, grandmama, dear!’ Starski replied, with a sigh, ‘it’s easy to talk of feelings when one has twenty thousand a year. Everyone says “Vile money! Detestable money!” But why does everyone, from a farm-labourer to a minister of government, use up their spare time with work? Why do miners and sailors risk their lives? Simply for this vile money — because vile money gives them freedom for at least a few hours a day, or a few months in the year, or a few years in a man’s life. Everyone mistakenly despises money, but each one of us knows that it’s the manure in which personal freedom, science, art, even ideal love, all grow. Where did courtly love and the love of troubadours grow? Not, certainly, amidst tailors and smiths, not even among doctors and lawyers. It was cultivated by the wealthy classes which created women with delicate skin and white hands, and produced men with enough time to adore women.
‘We have here with us a representative of the men of action in Mr Wokulski who, as you yourself said, grandmama, has more than once given proof of his heroism. What attracted him to danger? Money, of course, which today is a power in his hands.’
The room grew quiet, all the ladies looked at Wokulski. After a moment of silence, he replied: ‘Yes, you are right, I made a fortune amidst difficult adventures, but do you know why I did so?’
‘Excuse me,’ Starski interrupted, ‘I’m not reproaching you, on the contrary — I regard it as a praiseworthy example for everyone. But how do you know, sir, whether a person who marries for money doesn’t have noble aims in view too? My parents are supposed to have married for love, but they weren’t happy and as for me, the fruit of their feelings, it’s useless to talk … Meanwhile, my admirable grandmama here married against her own feelings but today she is the benefactor of the entire neighbourhood. Better still,’ he added, kissing the Duchess’s hand, ‘she is correcting my parents’ errors — they were so taken up with love that they forgot to provide a fortune for me. And we have another example in the person of charming Mrs Wąsowska.’
‘Come, sir,’ said the widow, blushing, ‘you speak as if you were the prosecuting attorney at the Last Judgement. I’ll reply like Mr Wokulski: do you know why I did it?’
‘Yet you did it, and so did grandmama, and we all do the same,’ said Starski with ironical coldness, ‘except, of course, for Mr Wokulski, who has enough money to cultivate his feelings.’
‘I did the same,’ Wokulski exclaimed in a stifled voice.
‘You married for money?’ asked the widow, opening her eyes wide.
‘Not for money, but to obtain work and not starve to death. I know well that law of which Mr Starski speaks.’
‘And so?’ put in Starski, looking at his grandmother.
‘And because I know it, I pity those who must comply with it,’ concluded Wokulski. ‘It must be the greatest unhappiness in life.’
‘You are right,’ said the Duchess.
‘You begin to interest me, Mr Wokulski,’ added Mrs Wąsowska, stretching out her hand to him.
During the entire conversation, Ewelina had been concentrating on her embroidery. At this moment she raised her eyes and glanced at Starski with such a look of despair that Wokulski was startled … But Starski continued tapping his boot with the riding-crop, biting a cigar and smiling half-mockingly, half-sadly.
The voice of Ochocki was heard behind the summer-house: ‘Look, I told that Mrs …’
‘Well, that’s in the summer-house, not in the undergrowth,’ replied a young girl with a basket in her hand.
‘You’re absurd,’ Ochocki muttered, entering and looking uneasily at the ladies.
‘Aha, the conquering hero comes,’ said the widow.
‘I give you my word, I came through the undergrowth merely to get here more quickly,’ Ochocki explained.
‘You drove off the road, just as you did with us, today …’
‘On my word …’
‘Better take me back, instead of explaining,’ the Duchess interrupted.
Ochocki gave her his arm, but his expression was so embarrassed and his hat so awry that Mrs Wąsowska could not control her merriment, which brought another series of blushes to Felicja’s face, and made Ochocki dart several angry looks at the widow.
The entire company moved to the left down a side alley to the farm. First went the Duchess and Ochocki, then the girl with the basket, then the widow and Felicja, followed by Ewelina and Starski. At the gate, the noise in front increased, but at this moment Wokulski seemed to hear a quiet conversation behind him: ‘Sometimes I’d sooner be dead …’
whispered Miss Ewelina.
‘Be brave … be brave,’ Starski replied in the same way.
Only now did Wokulski understand the purpose of the walk to the farm, as a whole crowd of hens ran across the yard to the Duchess and she threw grain to them from the basket. Old Mateuszowa, their keeper, appeared behind the hens to tell her mistress all was well, although a falcon had been flying over the yard since morning, and one of the hens had choked on a pebble that afternoon, but recovered.
After a survey of the poultry, the Duchess inspected the barns and stables, where the labourers — mostly elderly people — made their reports to her. An accident almost occurred. Suddenly, a large colt ran out of the stable and jumped up at the Duchess, like a dog standing on its hind legs. Fortunately Ochocki stopped the mischievous animal, and the Duchess gave the colt its usual portion of sugar.
‘It will do you an injury one day, grandmama,’ said Starski, displeased, ‘who ever heard of caressing colts which will be horses one day?’
‘You always talk too sensibly,’ the Duchess replied, stroking the colt, which put its head on her shoulder and later ran after her, so the labourers had to take it back to the stable. Even some cows recognised their mistress, and greeted her with a stifled mooing, not unlike muttering.
‘A strange woman,’ Wokulski thought, looking at the old lady who knew how to arouse affection in animals, and even in human beings.
After supper, the Duchess went to bed, and Mrs Wąsowska proposed a stroll in the park. The Baron agreed, though reluctantly: he put on a thick top-coat, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and walked ahead with his fiancée, taking her by the arm. No one knew what they were talking about, but they saw she was very pale, and he had livid patches on his cheeks.
Towards eleven, all separated and the Baron, coughing, accompanied Wokulski to his room: ‘Well, sir, have you taken a good look at my fiancée? How beautiful she is! A positive Vestal, is she not? And when that strange look of melancholy appears on her sweet face — have you observed — then she’s so charming that … I’d give my life for her! I wouldn’t tell this to anyone except you, sir, but she produces such an effect on me that I don’t know whether I shall ever dare caress her … I only want to pray to her. I’d kneel at her feet, sir, and look into her eyes, and be happy if she would let me kiss the edge of her dress. Am I boring you?’
He coughed so hard that his eyes became bloodshot. After a rest, he went on: ‘I don’t often cough, but today I’ve caught a slight cold …. I’m not prone to catching a cold, except in autumn and New Year. Well, it will pass, for just yesterday I had Chalubinski and Baranowski in for a consultation, and they told me that if I take care of myself, I shall keep well … I also asked them (this is between you and me) what they thought of my marriage. But they said that marriage is such a personal thing … I pointed out to them that Berlin doctors told me long ago to marry. This made them think, and one of them immediately said: “It’s a pity you didn’t carry out their advice at once.” So I may tell you, sir, that I’ve now decided to do it before Advent.’
He had another fit of coughing. He rested, then suddenly asked Wokulski, in altered voice: ‘Do you believe in a future life?’
‘Why?’
‘You see, sir, faith in that protects a man from despair. I, for instance, understand that I myself shall not be as happy I might once have been, nor can I give her complete happiness. The only consolation I have is the thought that we shall meet in another, better world, where we shall both be young. For she,’ he added, thoughtfully, ‘will belong to me there too, since Holy Writ teaches us that what binds two people on earth will bind them in Heaven. Perhaps you, like Ochocki, don’t believe this? But you must admit that … sometimes you do, and you won’t give your word that it won’t be so.’
A clock in the next room struck midnight: the Baron jumped up in agitation, and bade Wokulski goodnight. A few minutes later his mounting cough could be heard at the far end of the wing. Wokulski opened the window. Calcutta hens were loudly crowing near the kitchen, in the park an owl hooted: one star broke from the sky and fell somewhere behind the tree. The Baron went on coughing.
‘Is everyone in love as blind as he?’ Wokulski thought, ‘for it’s clear to me, and probably to everyone else, that this young woman doesn’t love him at all. Perhaps she’s in love with Starski … I don’t understand the situation,’ he went on, ‘but mostly probably it is like this: that young woman is marrying for money, and Starski is encouraging her in this with his theories. Perhaps he’s in love with her himself? Not likely … Rather, he’s already bored by her, and is forcing her into the marriage … Unless — but no, that would be monstrous. Only street women have lovers who trade in them. What a stupid notion! Starski may well be her friend, and is advising her what he himself believes. After all, he openly says that he himself will only marry a rich woman. That principle is as good as any other, as Ochocki would say. The Duchess rightly said that today’s young people have strong heads and cold hearts. Our example has put them off sentimentality, so they believe in the power of money, which, moreover, is proof of sound sense. No, Starski is witty, perhaps something of a spendthrift, an idler, but he doesn’t lack spirit.
‘Though I wonder why Mrs Wąsowska is so set against him? She may have a weakness for him, and since she also has money, they’ll end by marrying. But what concern is it of mine?
‘I wonder why the Duchess didn’t mention Izabela today? Well, I won’t inquire. They’d immediately start talking about us.’
He fell asleep, and dreamed he was the Baron in love, with Starski playing the part of the friend of the family. He woke up, and smiled. ‘That would cure me at once,’ he murmured.
In the morning he went fishing again with Felicja and Ochocki. When everyone gathered for lunch at one o’clock, Mrs Wąsowska exclaimed: ‘Will you have them saddle two horses for us? For Mr Wokulski and me?’ Then, turning to Wokulski, she added: ‘We leave in half an hour. From now, you begin your service with me.’
‘Just the two of you?’ inquired Felicja, blushing.
‘Would you like to ride with Julian?’
‘Oh, I say! Please don’t dispose of my person for me,’ Ochocki protested.
‘Fela will remain with me,’ the Duchess interposed.
Blood and tears flowed into the eyes of Felicja. She glanced at Wokulski, first with anger then with contempt, and finally ran out of the room on the pretext of getting a handkerchief. When she returned, she looked like Mary, Queen of Scots in the act of forgiving her executioners, and her nose was red.
Punctually at two, a couple of fine mounts were brought around. Wokulski already waited at one, and a few minutes later Mrs Wąsowska appeared. She had on a close-fitting riding-habit, as shapely as Juno, with her chestnut hair done in a bun. She placed one foot in the groom’s hand and sprang nimbly into the saddle. The riding-crop quivered in her hand.
Meanwhile, Wokulski was coolly adjusting the reins. ‘Hurry, sir, hurry!’ she cried, drawing the reins on her horse so that it performed a circle and rose on its haunches: ‘Once outside the gates, we will gallop … Avanti Savoia!’
Wokulski finally mounted, Mrs Wąsowska impatiently cut her horse with the crop and they rode out of the yard. The road followed a linden alley a mile long. Flat fields lay on both sides, here and there were haystacks big as huts. The sky was clear, the sun cheerful, from afar could be heard the clatter of a threshing machine. They cantered for several minutes. Then Mrs Wąsowska put the handle of her crop to her lips, leaned forward and flew off at a gallop. The veil of her hat fluttered behind her like ash-coloured wings: ‘Avanti! Avanti! …’
They galloped several minutes. Suddenly the lady brought her horse to a halt: she was flushed and breathless. ‘Enough,’ she said, ‘let’s ride more slowly now.’ She rose in her saddle and gazed attentively towards blue woods visible in the east. The alley came to an end: they rode on across fields where pear trees and hay-ricks stood green. ‘Tell me, sir,’ she said, ‘i
s it a great pleasure to make a fortune?’
‘No,’ said Wokulski, after a moment’s reflection.
‘But spending it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? Yet people say great things of your fortune. They say you have sixty thousand a year.’
‘I have a good deal more today, but I spend very little.’
‘How much?’
‘Some ten thousand.’
‘That’s a shame. I decided to spend a great deal of money last year. My plenipotentiary and accountant assure me I spent twenty-seven thousand … I overdid things, but I didn’t dispel my ennui. Today I thought I would ask you the effect of spending sixty thousand a year. But you don’t spend so much … That’s a pity. Do you know what? Spend sixty thousand — or no, a hundred thousand a year — then tell me whether it has any effect, and what kind. Will you?’
‘I can tell you in advance that it won’t.’
‘No? Then — what is money for? If a hundred thousand a year doesn’t bring happiness, what does?’
‘You could have it on a thousand a year. Everyone carries happiness within himself.’
‘Or can get it for himself?’
‘No, madam.’
‘Do you say that, you unusual man?’
‘Even if I were unusual, it’s from suffering, not happiness. And still less through spending money.’
A dust-cloud appeared near the wood, Mrs Wąsowska watched it a moment, then suddenly cut at her horse and turned to the right, into the fields and off the road: ‘Avanti! Avanti! …’ They rode ten minutes, then Wokulski drew rein. He had stopped on a hill, above a meadow as beautiful as a dream. What was there in it that was beautiful? The greenness of the grass, the curving flow of the stream, or the trees leaning over it, or the clear sky? Wokulski did not know.
But Mrs Wąsowska was not interested. She was riding headlong uphill, as if seeking to impress her companion by her courage. When Wokulski rode slowly after her, she turned her horse and impatiently exclaimed: ‘Come, sir — are you always so tedious? I didn’t bring you for a ride in order to yawn, after all. Pray entertain me, immediately!’